


Monday Afternoon

by Scribe



Category: Doctor Who
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 20:38:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scribe/pseuds/Scribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Rose/Ten (or Rose, Ten) reunion of sorts, from the sidelines. Ignores S4.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monday Afternoon

**Author's Note:**

> This began as a drabble for [](http://kashmir1.livejournal.com/profile)[**kashmir1**](http://kashmir1.livejournal.com/)'s first lines meme. Hence, the first line belongs to her. This also owes a lot to [](http://np-complete.livejournal.com/profile)[**np_complete**](http://np-complete.livejournal.com/)'s brilliant series, Heritage.

She meets him on a dreary and murky Monday afternoon. She's sitting on the curb outside the house, trying to coax the stray cat across the street to come over and be petted. She doesn't like particularly like cats, but Mum and Dad are arguing inside and she'd prefer company that's quiet and skittish, despite the fact that everything's damp and a little too cold outside. It's not that she's afraid they'll get a divorce or something. That's just the way they are; they love each other more than anything and they fight and then they make up and everything's fine, but she's just sick of it, sick of keeping her family's secrets, sick of their self-importance, of the way they still forget that she doesn't share their memories of another world.

She notices him after a minute, standing down the road from the cat and staring at her. She knows who he is. It would be impossible not to, growing up in her house with his name invoked in a tone that makes him out to be some combination of myth and lover and savior and delinquent ex-boyfriend. He doesn't seem particularly inspiring or noble. If she had to pick a word to describe him it would probably be...damp. Damp, and a little odd. She wonders if anyone has anyone has ever told him that watching girls intently from across the street is generally considered pretty creepy. She doesn't catch his gaze, but he walks over anyway.

"Staring at girls you don't know is creepy," she says. If someone has told him he apparently needs a reminder.

"I'm sorry," he says, and then, "I like your ears. And, um, your jaw. Thing. Jaw line." He waves a hand unhelpfully around his own jaw, as if he doesn't expect her to understand English or something.

"That's even creepier," she informs him.

"I'm sorry," he says again. "I didn't mean it. Well, I do mean it, about your ears and all, but I don't mean the creepy part." She doesn't bother reminding him that that _is_ the creepy part. Something gives her the idea that it wouldn't stick any better the second time around. "You remind me of someone," he says after a bit. She makes a noncommittal noise. They look at each other in silence.

"She's at the hairdresser," she says finally, because evidently he's just going to stare at her all day otherwise. "Down the block." She jerks her head to indicate the direction. He goes all wide-eyed with this look like he wants to smile but his face is too caught up in the wide-eyed-ness to get it to work all the way. He looks down the road, back at her- or at her ears or something- and walks off without even saying thank you.

 

Rose leaves on Tuesday. Mum and Dad have another fight. The stray cat is nowhere to be found, so she sits with her knees pulled up and chucks stones into the storm drain.


End file.
